


Looking In

by khaleessii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Explicit Language, Humor, M/M, Reichenbach AU, Suicide, Unconventional Format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khaleessii/pseuds/khaleessii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for a friend. You are a grad student that recently moved to London to get some experience in the medical field, and broaden your horizons. You end up working as an assistant to Molly Hooper at Barts, and proceed to find yourself caught in the center of a complex web of emotion that wasn't spun to catch you in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking In

**Author's Note:**

> 'Twas written before season three, folks. Also, the inspiration for the poem at the end was taken from a post I remember seeing on tumblr a long time ago, and have been unable to find its source in order to credit it. Obviously it's not an exact match, but I just though it might be something to keep in mind. Disclaimer disclaimer yada yada... Lastly, excuse my somewhat (and by somewhat I mean almost entirely) limited knowledge of autopsies and paperwork and… things. I’m a seventeen year old girl and I barely know how to fill out a job application. Enjoy!

“What am I doing

With a lung full of dust

And a tongue of wood,

Knee-deep in the cold

Swamped by flowers?”

—Sylvia Path, _Leaving Early_

 

               Shit. Shit shit shit. Can you hear that? That’s the sound of another Top Ramen plopping into the pot and splattering boiling water into your face. Well fuck. You forgot to take the flavor packet out of the wrapper. Of course, over here, they spell it “ _flavour_ ”. It was now swirling around in the water, reflecting the flickering light of the crappy fluorescent bulbs in your new flat. It hurt your eyes.

               Scratch that, it was the sound of your mother yelling at you through the phone. You blew it, you moron. You put all your eggs in one basket. That was a rookie move. And you fucking knew it.  But you did it anyway. Now you couldn’t even pay your way through college. _University_. I mean don’t get me wrong, London was cool and everything, but that didn’t make this whole situation any less stupid. Now Mom had to pitch in. And she was not having it.

               No, but really, it was the sound of your alarm clock finally drifting through the last of the many layers of your sleep-deprived unconsciousness. Said sleep-deprivation was your fault, too. The beeping blared insistently, and you finally gave a start upon realizing what was going on.

Shit. Fuck. Dick cakes. Arse wankers. That last one in honor of your new home. You leapt out of bed and sprinted around the corner to the bathroom. No time for hair. It’s an oily mess, and you threw it up as you ran back to your room and hastily pulled on your favorite purple blouse (which you hadn’t washed in several days, and the resulting smell was that of an elderly eggplant). Kakis. Black socks. Black shoes. Black hair for your black soul. Black keys for your black VW Polo. Used. Duh.

The traffic wasn’t bad, but that gave you less time to think up an excuse for Molly. It was your third day on the job, and your second day late. Molly was sweet, and she probably wouldn’t say anything, but that was why it sucked. Just another person to let down. Disappointment was only better than getting the boot (and not in the sexy way) because you needed the field experience.

You pulled into the parking lot at Bart’s and breathed a sigh of relief. Empty. Still, it would be good to get inside and at least pretend to be a contributing member of society. You grabbed your purse and headed into the storage room, stuffing it in your locker and grabbing your lab coat and keys. You unlocked the office and turned on the lights, sitting behind your desk and rifling through the post-mortem paperwork that needed finalizing. Your phone buzzed in your pocket a few minutes later, and you pulled it out. Molly.

Sorry I’m running late! Had a bit of a late one.. Be there in a mo!

Sure enough, within ten minutes, she came bustling through the swinging door, trademark sweater and all.

“Sorry to put you on the spot like that, Val,” she said, a little breathless.

“No worries, just finishing up some stuff,” you replied, gesturing to your paperwork. Suddenly her phone went off, and she jumped, dropping her bag down on her desk and fumbling through it hurriedly.

“Expecting someone?” you asked.

“Hm?” she said, glancing up briefly. “Oh, yeah, sorry about all this. Just gonna be a busy..” she trailed off, reading the text. “Oh.. gosh..”

Her brow furrowed and she ran her hand through her ponytail anxiously, glancing around the office. “Listen, Val, would you mind holding the fort for just a few more minutes?”

“Sure, do you need anything?”

“Oh, I think I’m okay. Ta,” and she rushed out the door.

Ten minutes later, Molly, looking a little frazzled, walked in, followed by two men. She turned to the taller one.

               “Right. Sherlock, this is Val. Val, this is—”

               “We don’t have time for small talk, Molly, this is important, see,” he interrupted, his eyes having barely flickered to you. He walked straight past into the mortuary, followed by the other, who gave you an apologetic look.  Molly, still frazzled but hardly phased, gave your arm a squeeze and followed them.

               Well, that was weird. But not really your business. You didn’t have the time for it be. Paperwork had to be done.  You sat down and picked up your pen, filling in some blanks. The drone of the taller man, Sherlock’s, voice leaked through the walls. You glanced up through the window. He was looking intently at the body on the table. He was thin, his hair as dark as his skin was pale. Paler than you. That’s a rare sighting. His friend, shorter, with sandy blond hair, crossed his arms as he listened to him. You clicked your pen absentmindedly.

               They were done in twenty minutes, and Molly followed them out.

               “Are you sure that’s all you’ll be needing? I can copy the report, if you like—”

               “No, Molly, that will be quite alright,” he said, not bothering to look back at her as he smiled dryly. And they were gone, and Molly stood staring at the swinging door.

               “Well, he seemed kind of rude,” you said. She gave a little start.

               “Sherlock’s just busy. His work is important, he doesn’t have time to chat,” she said quietly.

               “That doesn’t mean he has to be an ass about it,” you replied. She glanced at you and smiled a little.

               The rest of the day went par the usual. Multiple coffee breaks distributed through a few stacks of paperwork. You finished up, said goodbye to Molly, and drove home, stopping by a market to pick up some veggies for dinner. Gotta class it up at least once in a while. You put some olive oil in a pan for stir fry. Not satisfying. You fixed it with cake. After a few episodes of Supernatural, you dosed off.

               It’s dark. You can feel the heat and weight of his body on top of you, his warm breath on your neck as you run your fingers over the slick of sweat on his alabaster back. He draws back and his eyes are piercing as they burn into yours. The moon is a cold orb in the sky, a great milky eye staring down at the two of you. You feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up as his fingers curl through it.

               You jerked awake to the sound of gunfire and exploding lights from your TV as Dean and Bobby empty their guns into Cas in the barn. Your palms were clammy and your hair was plastered to your neck as you fumbled for the remote. _Were the **hell** did that come from?_

               The screen went black and you stumbled into your bathroom, still waking up. You checked your phone as you get the water running. 12:49. Could be worse. The water was good and chilly, so you stripped and jumped in. Cold fingers clawed at your head and shoulders. _Nope_. You yelped and turned the nozzle back toward the little “H”. I mean, dreaming about doing hot dudes wasn’t anything new, but.. I mean he hadn’t really even made enough of an impression to warrant any response.. except maybe being a spectacular dick.

               He wasn’t _conventionally_ attractive by any means… he was a little thin and his face was sort of.. unusual. He did have kind of an air about him.. and his eyes weren’t bad. Pale blue didn’t really cover it, icy was too cliché. There had been green, even a little gold. But this was going on barely a flickering glance and a sex dream. But there probably wasn’t much use dwelling on it. He seemed like he was with that other guy.

               You stopped the water and groped for your towel, which of course you had forgotten to put on the hook. You stepped into the inadequately heated air of your bathroom and flung open the cabinet, ripping the fluffiest towel out from under its mates.  The slut. You wiped yourself down and worked a comb through your hair. Once you were done, you pulled on some pajamas and dropped into your bed, falling into a deep, frick-frack-free sleep almost as soon as your head hit the pillow. Unfortunately.

               Your alarm clock never went off because you forgot to set it. Good thing your bladder is so small it couldn’t make the night. You dragged yourself into a sitting position, your throat dry and your face coated in a thin layer of evaporated drool. Classic. You hobbled to the bathroom to pee, came back, and collapsed back onto your bed, face to face with a clock that read 7:45. Shit. God dammit. You didn’t even have a half hour to snooze. Ugh.

               The good news was you already took a shower last night. The bad news was that now your hair was a mess. You did your thing (except you actually ate some fruit along the way) and you were ready on time. Good. Maybe this wouldn’t be a shit week after all.

               The traffic was moderate. Molly greeted you when you walked in and offered you her leftover bagel half, which you graciously accepted. The man that had been with Sherlock, John, as you came to discover, came in about halfway through the day to ask Molly if she wouldn’t mind getting that paperwork for him after all. He said he might be able to shed some light on a few things for Sherlock. You printed it off the copier and handed it to him. He grinned and was off. The rest of the day was paperwork. Molly performed an autopsy on an old woman with a ruptured appendix.

               You drove home and made some real pasta. Al dente. Marinara sauce. The works. You would save the shower for tomorrow morning. You turned on your laptop and logged into your mother’s Netflix account. Some Merlin couldn’t hurt. It was basically just a medieval AU of Brokeback Mountain. With lusty British actors.

               You were wrong. The most Merthur-tastic episode was incidentally also the saddest. You dozed off feeling kind of unfulfilled. You were sitting on a bench in the pouring rain. There was a couple on a bench across the street. Their foreheads were pressed together intimately as one ran his fingers over the other’s lips. They breathed. Their eyes were closed. You felt intrusive just witnessing this. The other was kind of stiff, but he remained. The rain continued. You woke up in a cold sweat and moved to your bed.

               The morning greeted you with the usual overcast sky. Friday. Thank Her Majesty the Queen. You got ready and drove into work to find Molly facing the wall whispering urgently into her phone. You leaned through the door and knocked softly on the side of the wall. She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy. She smiled and nodded, hissing an insistent goodbye into the phone.

               “Hey,” she said, sniffling a little. “Don’t mind me. Just some.. family issues that needed working out.”

               “Oh, don’t worry about it,” you replied, not really sure if you should say anything more. Silence fell over the office as you hung your jacket over your chair.

               “You know, Molly, if there’s ever anything I can do.. you’re welcome to shoot me a text.”

               She looked up from her report and smiled. “Thanks, Val. I appreciate it.”

               She seemed antsy for the rest of the day. She asked you to stay for an extra hour, as three fresh bodies had been brought in near midday. You finished and said goodbye to Molly. You walked outside and got in your car, stuck the keys in the ignition. The engine chugged. You stopped and tried again. Same. _Shit_. You tried a few more times to no avail. Well, fuck. You didn’t want to bother Molly; she was still finishing up and it had been a long day for her. It was too late to call a tow truck. You were pretty much broke anyway; you didn’t even have enough on you for a cab. So you decided to walk. The main street was buzzing with actvivity, and after about twenty minutes you came to a point that was blocked off by police cars. Looks like you were going to have to take the back streets to your flat.  

 Twilight was creeping in, and as you hurried through alley ways, you realized that you were setting yourself up to me the schmuck in the first five minutes of a procedural crime drama. You turned a corner, and something made you stop. A familiar voice bounced off the walls of the close-set buildings behind you. You stopped. The other, a deeper voice, echoed within earshot. Sherlock. What was he doing here?

“You’re worried they’re right,”

“What?”

               “Your worried they’re right about me. You have no way of knowing, _really_ knowing, not for sure. Everybody wants to believe it, that’s what makes it so clever,” he was speaking between gasps of air. Like they’d been … _"_ _running"_. You chanced a peek around the corner you were leaning against. Sherlock and John had their backs up against a wall, both panting. John was clutching at Sherlock’s sleeve. They were _handcuffed_ together. They really had been running.

               “A lie that’s preferable to the truth,” Sherlock continued, his breath hanging on the cold night air. “All my brilliant deductions were just a sham, no one feels inadequate. Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man.”

“No, I know you’re for real,” John replied, staring at the bricks in the road. Sherlock’s eyes snapped to him. “Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time,” he lifted his eyes to Sherlock. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“Well, you don’t really have much choice, do you?” He replied, whipping his head around as they darted to the opposite wall.

“What about Mycroft? He can help us,” John said as the noise of the sirens grew louder. “He thinks I’m in reconciliation?”

“Now’s not really the moment”, Sherlock replied. And they were gone. Well that was bizarre. The thought of calling the police flitted across your mind. You decided against it. It seemed better to just get home as soon as possible.

               You came to your doorstep about ten minutes later, your heart still thumping in your ears. At least it was the weekend now. You got into your little kitchen and set your keys down, popping some leftover chicken tika into the microwave. Tonight was definitely feeling like a Mentalist night. Your favorite. You grabbed dinner out of the microwave and poured yourself some coke. Halfway through rifling through your dvd set, your phone buzzed. Molly. Hm.

               Hi Val, I wouldn’t be bothering you right now if this weren’t absolutely urgent, but I need you at Bart’s asap. Something’s come up and I need your help

               - Molly

               You worked your fingers into your hair. What could possibly be so important as to warrant an emergency _mortuary_ meeting? What could have possibly gone down? _All of the clients are dead_. You sighed and dragged yourself up, grabbing a twenty from the jar. This time you would get a cab.

               You pulled into Bart’s and jogged to the door. When you got into the office, Molly was pacing in her office. The lights in the lab were on. Molly looked up and saw your face.

               “Sherlock’s in the lab,” she explained, rifling through the pile of unusually scattered papers on her desk.

               “What? Why?” Of course she didn’t know that you’d just seen he and John frolicking together through the darkest alleyways of London attached by the wrist, but that didn’t make things and less strange. She came to a navy folder and pulled it from under the rest.

               “Listen, Val, I know this is asking a lot, but it would really, really mean a lot to me if you would take this and keep it at your flat for a couple of days. For safe keeping,”

               She held it out to you. Her voice sounded congested, and you noticed her face was a little puffy around her eyes. You hesitated a little before taking it.

               “Molly, what’s going on?” You asked. Her eyes got a little watery.

               “Oh,” she mumbled, looking away and sniffling. “It Sherlock.. He’s practically made an Olympic sport out of emotional repression.”

               “Hey, come here,” You said, bringing her in for a hug.

               “Thank you, Val. This means a lot. Really.” You separated and she wiped her eyes on her sleave. “And just one more thing… if you could keep your phone on you for the next few days, that would be really amazing,”

               “Sure,” you replied, still without any idea what was going on. And Sherlock was suddenly in the doorway. He looked exhausted. Bags hung under his eyes, and the superior air he had had to him the last time you saw him had drained completely.

               “Molly, it’s time.” His voice was almost unrecognizable. Not confident and condescending like it had been. Quieter. Hoarse. Molly took a deep breath and nodded. You took that as your queue to leave.

You caught another cab home and marathoned The Mentalist until 4:30 in the morning. God dammit. You had to have chosen the _one_ straight ship that _wasn’t canon_. You woke up the next day mid-afternoon. _Whoa_. You checked your phone. _Six missed calls._ All from Molly. Shit.

               You dialed her number and she answered, crying into the phone.

               “Molly, what’s—”

               “He’s gone, Val, he’s dead. It didn’t work,” she cut you off, spinning into hysterics.

               “Who? Molly, what’s going—”

               “Sherlock! It’s Sherlock; he was in trouble.. we had a plan!”

               “What? What happened? What did he do?” your voice was rising.

               “No, he was innocent. People said he was a fake. He did, too. Someone was gonna kill John—”

               “What? Is he okay? What happened to Sherlock??”

               “Yes, yes, John is fine for now, but Sherlock… he was gonna fake his own death..”

               She trailed off. You took a deep breath.

               “Look, Molly, is there any way that you could be held accountable for this?”

               She sniffled on the other line.

               “No, er.. at least I don’t think so… it was pretty obvious… several people saw him jump of the building, so…”

               “Okay, then. All we can do now is make sure John’s okay. Do you have any way of knowing how he is?”

               You heard her blow her nose. “Erm.. yeah, I have his cell number. I also went to their flat for Christmas—”

               “Great. Maybe pay him a visit or at least call him?”

               “Yeah.. yes, that’s a good idea,” she replied softly.

               “Okay, great. Is there anything I can do?” You realized that your hand was shaking. There was a pause.

               “Yes, actually. You remember that folder I gave you?”

               “Yeah, I’ve got it,” you told her, looking over your shoulder to where it rested on your kitchen counter.

“Great. Now all you need to do is keep it safe. It’s just some stuff Sherlock left behind just in case of the worst.”

“Alright. I can do that. Call me if anything comes up.”

“Okay. Will do. Thanks a bunch, Val,” and the line went dead.        

You reached over to the counter for the folder and slumped down in your kitchen chair. You felt your eyebrows rise as you read through its contents. These past few days had been a whirlwind. You felt like you were looking through a window, from the outside of a fishbowl into a microcosm that wasn’t yours to spy on. It was a disjointed feeling. You got up and flipped open your laptop, opening Pandora so that you didn’t have to chop carrots in silence. You ate your lunch and scrolled through your dash. Minutes trickled into hours and the stress melted away. You felt lighter.

And then your phone buzzed. You jumped and tapped “accept”, and Molly’s voice came tumbling into your ear. It was John. He was there. At Bart’s. Right where Sherlock had been just twelve hours ago.

“He’s here, Val, he’s here, he’s going to jump,” Molly was manic, whispering and crying into the receiver. “He says if I call the police, he’ll do it,”

“Do what, Molly,” you asked, frozen. Of course you already knew. She swallowed.

“Jump.”

There was silence. Your hands were starting to shake again. You were taking larger and larger gulps of air.

“What do you want me to do—” You pressed urgently.

“Bring the folder, just make sure you’ll have it,” she choked. Her voice shivered. “Val, I’ve got to go. Please, _please_ just be here as soon as you can. I don’t know how long I can keep him.”

And she was gone.

You grabbed your jacket and the only paper in the folder and folded it, clenching it tightly. Purse in hand, you burst out into the night. The cold air was heady and bracing. You trampled down the metal stairs, their tinny complaints drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You felt a numbness settle in around you. You felt the sturdy pavement rut against your feet as you ran, the catcalls from anonymous men from darkened alleyways falling on deaf ears. The moon’s light was dull through the ripples of midnight clouds. The occasional flickering street light was your only company.

You reached the main street and hailed a taxi. The word emergency spilled out of your mouth too loud. The cabbie’s eyes kept flicking back to you. Driving was slow. He pulled into Bart’s and you thrust a twenty into his hand. Your keys were shaking in your hand but the door was already cracked and you swung it open, running. Blood pumped through your ears. It was deafening. Stairwell. Two steps at a time. Closer. Closer. The fire exit gaped. You burst out and the wind met you like a slap to the face.

John lifted his head to the ribcaged sky. A satellite passed overhead. It was at that moment that you realized that this wasn’t your story. You were a bystander, and onlooker, the fold in a dog-eared page. It was their story. Not an epic dictated by one of the greats or penned by a person who'd dedicated their life to the written word. The pages were stained and wrinkled, entire paragraphs dedicated to the weaving of a delicate reality, a reality which could have crumpled under the force of a single heated breath.

Maybe that’s why Sherlock was so softspoken near the end. His throat had been raw from the constant need to swallow his pride.

Molly was pleading to John, and your voice cracked as you joined her. His head fell.

“I don’t care what a damn piece of paper says! It doesn’t matter! He’s gone! I’ve got nowhere to go, nothing to live for, no _one_ to live for,”

“What about your friends, John?!” Molly begged, inching along the edge of the roof.

“I haven’t got _friends_ ,” he spat into the night, almost laughing at her. “Not like him. No one who _actually_.. who _wants_ to..”

You slowly started to reach for your phone. 999 was already entered. All you needed to do was press _one_ little button…

But something made your head snap up. John’s face had crumpled as Molly screeched that _she_ was his friend. His palms faced the sky. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up and your blood ran cold. The world tilted away from him. You stumbled forward. The concrete kissed your forehead, and a dark stream rippled from the site. Molly’s face, white and frozen in horror, was swallowed up by darkness.

*             *             *

               You would wake up the following afternoon in the local hospital with a minor concussion and a turban of gauze wrapped around your head by an aggressive nurse. You would walk out with a discharge slip and a cheap faux-leather purse of fresh psychological scarring. You would walk into your first appointment with a new therapist approximately two and a half weeks later. But before then, you would enjoy a steaming bowl of Ramen and reread the page that you had clutched in your hand so tightly the previous night, that, incidentally, had been preserved by the very same angry nurse that had embellished your skull.

I am not a poet,

I am a scientist.

 

I can measure the exact frequency

Of your voice when you say my name.

 

But I cannot explain

How it resonates

With such perfect clarity

D o w n  m y  s p i n e

 

I am not a poet,

I am a scientist.

 

And there is nothing a scientist loves more

Than the pursuit

 

Of discovery.

 

\- SH


End file.
